


Epilogue

by Herbrarian



Series: New Orders [20]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dispatches, Duty, Endings, Estrangement, F/M, Freedom, Grand Cathedral, Halamshiral, Letters, Loss, Memory Loss, Nightmares, POV Cullen Rutherford, Post-Trespasser, Reunions, Skyhold, Templar Order, The Anchor (Dragon Age), Trespasser, Val Royeaux, homecomings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-01-07 01:04:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12222606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herbrarian/pseuds/Herbrarian
Summary: This was never going to be a fairy tale.





	1. Hopeless Wanderer

“Field reports for you, Ser.”

Jonas hands him a stack of papers from the rookery. On top he sees Leliana’s summation of the contents. The missions in the Approach continue without interruption and the Inquisitor's party has reached the Storm Coast and are preparing to make contact with the Engineer and descend.

He hesitates a moment, but when Jonas does not hand him a separate scroll, he skims down through the stack with a sense of resignation. He hadn't truly expected word from Dorothea, but he had hoped.

“Thank you, Jonas. Please gather the garrison captains and we’ll review the findings; give me half an hour so I can read through it. I would like to have this done by lunch.” Cullen pulls his chair to his desk, sitting so he can review the individual reports from his field captains.

Absently, he hears the sound of the drills down in the courtyard around the sparring ring as Jonas opens the door. He notes the sound of Bull, clipping orders. Dorian had refused to go into the field if the large warrior went, and Cullen had finally fumed into silence on the topic around the War Table when Dorothea would broker no argument. Later, Leliana's jaw had hardened when he sought her advice, looking for some way to convince Dorothea to take a warrior in her personal party, but the Nightingale had not offered him anything helpful and retreated to her endless meetings with clerics and scouts.

Finally he had pulled Dorothea aside and begged her to take the Qunari with her, but she had waved him off. They had exchanged heated words and then solidified into silence. He had watched silently from the upper courtyard as the party departed: two mages and two rogues.

Then there was nothing left to do but manage operations and worry.

He squints at a note in the margin of the report. Leliana’s script eludes him when his eyes are tired and he has not been sleeping well without Dorothea tucked against his back, grounding him with a hand laid casually on his chest. It feels as if he is always tired when she is not here: he wonders if he slept better in the early days, when the Breach still loomed in the sky. It is a damnable, mirthless thought that he slept better during the days of the prospect of losing the entire world than he does now.

Her absence heightens his continued feelings of disquiet. He reads through a summary of the reconstruction and cleansing of the mines in Sahrnia and pushes down a rising sense of panic. He should be used to the feeling of loss that haunts his days: loss of things he believed in, ideas he once loved, people he misses. He scans stories of the villagers near the mine: a missing son, a maimed wife, livestock lost to the Lyrium when they were used for pack animals. The cleaning, the purging of the land is slow going. Kirkwall had been painstaking and he remembers vividly the men and women who died in the early days when they didn't know just how toxic it was. The burden of that responsibility makes his mind heavy, and he knows that despite all the precautions there will be losses among their workers here, too.

Irritated, he grunts and pushes aside the report on Sahrnia. His mind draws to Dorothea as he takes in a map of the camps around the Avvaar settlement. His eyes graze the flow of the river that feeds those people. Too soon she will have to head there, too, find this academic, and settle a tribal war. He should not blame her for wandering, seeking her freedom. He wishes he could find a way, too, to be unfettered by the rule of history; except he is a practical man and he doesn't spend time in idle wishing.

They had fought before she left. She wanted him to come, to leave Skyhold, head into the Deep Roads. There had been so many reasons for him to say no—the closeness of the Deep, the song of Raw Lyrium, his responsibilities here—and really only one reason to say yes. He looked in her eyes and knew that even though she said it was fine, she had still wanted him to say yes, felt the bitterness that it still wasn't enough to convince him to go.

She left the next morning with scarce another word, barely taking time to break her fast before she was off with Cole, Varric, and Dorian.

He reviews the reports on top. Leliana’s reports tell that another minor quake was felt topside by her agents. The earthquakes have not abated and the uncertainty of the terrors of what the Deep will bring nearly overwhelms him. He presses his fingers into his temple, willing away the tension that has been with him for the last two weeks.

He shuffles through the stack and his heart thuds to see a familiar script.

_Dorothea._

She has not done routine field reports since the early days, delegating them to lieutenants and, on rare occasion, to Varric. He scans her report: they have found the Shaper and met the Legion’s General. He swallows as he sees that they ready for a descent into the Deep. The date is from four days ago. The bile in his throat sours as he Chants from Exaltations 3.

Lyrium has taken so much in his life, many of the first days after the Conclave are even now a blur, the repetition and the withdrawal settling into a monotonous tone of days that lose their color and distinction. But with Dorothea in the field again to fight for the Lyrium supply routes, he wonders at how much more Lyrium can take from him.

He clutches at the reports in his hands, crumpling the page, and the shift of parchment, its thickness, brings to his attention that there is another paper under the report. He feels it and, when he pulls it away, it snaps into a tight curl.

Cullen knows the tight roll means it came in a separate cover, and he winces in relief at how she must have bribed someone to take the journey up that damned lift (it was the best they could do on such short notice, and he has little doubt that Varric arranged some of the best builders they could have found, but he has heard enough reports of how it sways and shifts to feel more than vaguely wary) to push a letter to Skyhold. He growls at the Spymistress quietly that she has taken the liberty to open it and then loses his frustration in a huff as he settles in to read, so relieved to see her opening greeting:

_Cullen,_

_Hello love._

_I have seen nothing like this in my life._

 

_When we were in the Hinterlands, at Vallamar, I had thought the remnants left behind, the treasure room and mechanical apparatus, had been remarkable._

_In the Hissing Wastes, I had been so taken with the cavernous openings, dwarfing the scope of Adamant_ [he snorts a laugh at her word choice, can almost hear Varric groaning with the poor joke of it] _, I could not imagine anything grander or more ancient._

 

_But they are nothing compared to this. What I was missing was the scope of it all._

 

_The Deep Roads here delve. I know this is a ridiculous statement and undoubtedly have you chuckling at my lack of imagery (did you like the "dwarfing"? I tried it on Varric first: I got a full body groan), but there are no other words._

_It is ponderous and one feels so small standing at the bottom, looking up. I had to meet with the Shaper down in the interior, in the deep. She cannot even chance a glimmer of sky. Varric is damnedly frustrated and tired and I know he thinks of his brother constantly. I wish I could let him not be here and, since I cannot do that, I at the very least wish I had taken your advice and brought Bull and not Cole. I think if Cole asks Varric or any of the Legionnaires again about their sleep, they may find him his very own cave troll to fight._

 

_But there is no dark song here; so that is a mercy of the Maker that I cannot overlook._

 

_We will be moving into the Roads tomorrow, and I will bribe one of the scouts with light duty in Val Royeaux to get this to the surface. Leliana will want a report for Josephine, and I want this letter in your hands._

_I know I have been driving you crazy the last few weeks, pacing around the keep and chasing Josephine to distraction with every noble I piss off. Watching Vivienne return to Val Royeaux and with Solas gone, it seems like so few of us are here now . . . and I struggle to know what to do with myself._

_Josie keeps telling me now that I have to be a Trevelyan. I know she means well, wants only to rebuild what we have all struggled to keep together, but I am so tired. I never thought that with the title of Enchanter, the title of Herald, and the title of Inquisitor, that the title of Trevelyan would be the hardest one to carry._

_I find that I can’t stop wandering. It feeds something in me, fills something empty. Or maybe it is just that when I am moving I don't notice the hole. The hole in the world that it seems all of Thedas expects me to fill. You, too, I think. Although, your expectations are easier to take on._

_Down here, in the dark, I have no name: just my magic and my friends and our mission. It is blissfully simple. I could do with simple for a while._

 

_When I left, I shouldn’t have yelled or pushed or said the things that I did. You are too forgiving of me . . . and I will hope that you keep forgiving me._

_I will come home, Cullen. I will come home, and I will be Josephine’s noble, and Leliana’s agent, and the Divine’s puppet._

_Please still love me when I get there for, mostly, I hope I will be yours. When I get out of here, when we settle this damn Lyrium trade, I will come home to Skyhold and we will find our happy up under the wide sky._

 

_All my love,_

_D._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Mumford and Sons h/t](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rId6PKlDXeU)


	2. Little Talks

He wakes to the fire burning, unexpected light from the hearth pressing into his closed eyelids.

He bolts up, pulling the dagger from under his pillow as he does. It is an old habit from his Gallows' days, when assassins had persisted and the Charta had fought what he and Aveline were trying to do to re-establish order. It is a habit he never bothered to get rid of, truth be told. He tries to hide it from Dorothea, so as not to appear so broken, not certain if the paranoia is normal or the Lyrium.

But tonight the luck of the Bride isn’t with him as he bolts upright, blade drawn, and looks into her eyes. She kneels on the hearth rug, loosening her armor and grinning at him.

“Shit,” he whispers harshly into the dark: disgust for revealing his weakness, surprise at finding someone in the room, and relief that she is home interwoven into the word.  
Her eyes dance with laughter and she shrugs off her leather coat, “That’s quite a welcome home, Commander,” she moves to pull off the boots she’s already unlaced.

“We didn’t expect you . . . “ he trails off, aware at her slight frown that it sounds like an accusation. He gives his head a good shake as if the motion could substitute for four hours of sleep and a cup of coffee.

She stands up, gaze determined and bright. With a tug of a smile on her lips she hooks her thumbs into her leggings and drags them down to her ankles. Dorothea steps out of them and jumps to the foot of the bed.

Crawling up the covers, she reaches for the dagger where it has landed absently. Her eyes meet his, verifying her movement and, when he relaxes his eyelids in acquiescence, she tugs on the pommel pulling it from under his fingers. She moves and stretches behind him to feel under the pillow for the sheathe. The movement causes her to straddle him and she presses into his lap as she snaps the dagger into the housing.

“Why, Commander,” she purrs, grinning and stretching to the side to slide the dagger just under the bed, “I hadn’t expected a full salute.” She whispers the last into his lips as she captures his mouth with hers.

He kisses her back, his tongue tasting lips and teeth and tongue, as if he would swallow her whole. She smells like the road and open air, ozone and jasmine, clean sweat and desire.

"Didn’t you?” he husks and he flips her over to her back and presses down into her. He is all hands and hips and laughter rings from her mouth until it transforms into groans and pants.

Later he knows he will pull her from the darkness that engulfs her smiles, that steals her sleep. He believes the Maker has finally made him whole so he can help to put together the pieces of her that shatter apart in the night.

But that will be later.

For now there is only the joy: the ghost of her spirit will lurk in the shadows of the night soon enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Of Monsters and Men h/t](https://youtu.be/IY8rOSyR5Rw)


	3. Oblivion

Cullen wakes to an empty bed.

He wakes in the Tower.

The bed is bigger than his bunk should be, which puzzles him for a moment, but he pays it no mind. His sword should be by his bed and his hand reaches down to find an empty expanse of floor.

The panic is swift. Bile rises into his throat and lodges above his collar bone.

If he felt safe enough not to have his sword next to him when he laid down . . . he must be in Kinloch.

The suffocating feeling launches him and his eyes fly open, expecting the dark, the screams, and the burnt smell of sulfur in the purple haze of a Crushing Prison . . . finds instead an undulating, green light and a ragged breath that isn't his own. The dissonance focuses his brain and he adjusts to his surroundings, wakens fully, and peers into the gloom of the bedroom.

_Dorothea’s room._

The doors to the balcony are mostly closed, opened no more than when he cracked them before he laid down next to her. When he’d come to bed, she’d been dozing. He had peeled out of his clothes, slipping on loose linen trousers for bed and washing his arms and face before pulling aside the covers and sliding in next to her warmth. She had roused to greet him, wordlessly claiming his mouth, hands pulling hip to hip, groans in the night, a release, and then lazy strokes of fingers, drifting off to sleep. He had hoped for a good night, a night when she would sleep.

Green bursts into the room. She sits on the divan, her knees drawn to her chest, her head bowed, her left arm limp at her side, held as far from her body as possible, hand clutched into a fist.

There will be no sleep for a while.

The harsh grate of her breathing has pulled him from the Fade expecting old horrors—assuming them—but he hasn’t slept next to his sword or with a dagger in months; not since he and Dorothea returned from the visit to Redcliffe to meet The Divine after the war.  
He pulls a hand down over his face, rubbing at his jaw to jar his brain into a semblance of calm and help. He pushes back the covers and rises. The cold presses into his thighs and he glances about for his sleep linens. He sees them crumpled on the floor where she threw them, the pale color luminescent in the Anchor’s light.

He pauses and pulls them on quickly, securing the waist tie, his eyes on Dorothea. She doesn’t stir or give any sign of hearing him. He doesn’t think she sleeps—her muscles are taut—but has instead settled into a pained trance. His mind flies for how to do this; after the Deep Roads it had gotten bad again in a way he had not seen since the Arbor Wilds. He thinks briefly to go get Leliana when he remembers the last time, the still healing sliver of puckered skin on his hip. He looks to the sound of her whimper from her huddled form as she crouches over her hand, trying to bury her fist in her lap. Her muscles are tight, and he doesn’t think she hears him move from the bed.

No.  
They are alone in this. He is a soldier. Surely he can do this on his own.

He approaches her, summoning a resolve he does not feel, drops to his knees, and places a hand on her shoulder. As he does she throws out a barrier, harmlessly catching him in its nimbus and she jerks as if she is a spooked animal.

He crouches next to her, calling her name into the dim and reaching for her hand to pull it into his. He holds it reverently between his fingers and presses his thumbs into the meaty planes of her palm. His eyes go soft and he feels for the edges of the Veil: it is chaos and a bright, tinny clatter in his mind. She came back that first night with the same sense dully vibrating like an aura, but now it beckons out, active and calling in the night.

He pushes at the Veil and shapes it into a vessel, willing the chaos to be contained. He watches the Anchor: the movement of its light seems to mock him. He rubs her hand, firms the Veil, and calls her name. Eventually her breath slows and the Anchor dims to a meek display. Her shoulders sag and the tension leeches from her body. She sniffs and finally shifts her forehead against her knee so that she can look down at her hand, watches it resting in his. She lifts her other arm and he feels the Fade stir into fire and a candle lights on the table near them.

The light draws his eye to the surface where a slim volume sits. He recognizes it immediately: it is a gift from the King of Denerim, from King Alistair. The slim volume of poetry from the Hero of Ferelden sits open, the binding pressed so that it will stay. He senses her regard and hears her whisper into the night the poem he scans with his eyes,

 _Blood pounds. Hearing dulls and refocuses._  
_The stench comes blocking the Spring,_  
_like a susurrus of scent._  
_A cord tethered to my naval,_  
_these kin, not kin, fill my sight._  
_I part the veil and send them home._

" _Melana ’nehn enasal ir sa lethalin_ ; do you know it?” she asks him. He shakes his head no, echoes the same quietly. She nods, squeezes his hand briefly, and extricates her fingers as she rises from the divan and stands in front of him. Crossing to the firebox, she tosses a log into the hearth and wills a sharp cord of fire into the heart of it. He marvels at how far her control has come, her time with Dorian now often spent in training with fire. She doesn’t speak of it, but he knows she thinks of how talented Solas was with ice, and she prepares for something that is just beyond the edge of their seeing.

She pours a glass of wine, staring into its depths as she swirls and agitates the glass. “It means, ‘and time will again be the joy it once was’.” She tips up the glass and her throat works quickly as she pulls in the contents.

He averts his eyes to the ground, “It was not a kind gift from the King; I wish he had not chosen to be so harsh with his regard.”

Dorothea grunts in return, “He was not wrong,” she throws over her shoulder as she turns back to the sideboard. This time she fills her glass with water, he is thankful to see, and she throws it back quickly, clearing the wine from her mouth and tongue. “I should know what I’ve done.”

He breathes in through his nose, tries to contain his frustration as she settles into her despair. It is an old argument from her and he tires to hear it. Exhaustion creeps in of a sudden and he blows a breath out his mouth, pushes up off his arms to stand.  
It is both too late and not early enough to head to the training grounds. He had better try to sleep again.

She watches him from across the room, daring him to answer her, but he ignores her and crosses to the bed. He straightens the covers that have gone awry, tucking in the ends, smooths the sheets, and pulls back the bedclothes to slide under them. He meets her gaze which stares into him with unconcealed ferocity. “Dorothea, come to bed,” and with that he turns onto his side to lay down with his back to her. He closes his eyes and tries to find a center of calm where he can relax and sleep for a few hours before the dawn breaks.

He hears the bottle—the wine, again—lift from the tray and she pours another glass. Moments pass and yet she still doesn’t come to bed. He begins to still and his attention drifts. He starts when eventually her voice whispers, closer to him than he thought as she hovers behind him:

“They’re dying; and they don’t get to decide how.”

He can hear her desperation and her taunt, but he is so tired—so weary of this—that he simply says without raising his head or even opening his eyes: “You can’t save everyone, Dorothea.”

The silence comes then, stretches, and he thinks perhaps she will settle now, come to bed, and sleep. The candle goes out and the light turns grey behind his closed eyelids. He drifts and so he almost misses her harsh whisper, “Then what fucking use am I?”, and he registers her feet tripping down the stairs and the close of the door.

He goes back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Bastille h/t](https://youtu.be/vlcDX77rzPM)


	4. Empty

Cullen pulls Dorothea into his side, trying to find a comfortable position while she sleeps. The ride to Halamshiral is tedious under the best of circumstances, but doing it by carriage ride is mind numbing and, with it being just the two of them in the cab, it has been quiet.

He had never expected Dorothea to stand for it when Josephine had insisted they ride to the Exalted Council. But she hadn’t fought. She hadn’t even commented; Cullen wonders if Dorothea had even noticed. It should have been a relief as Josephine and Leliana prepared to depart that Dorothea did not argue. But the Keep was too quiet lately and Cullen misses the noise and chaos of the war. Dorian's departure last Fall left a pall over the tavern in the dim of the evening. Dorothea misses her friend and, without Varric to distract, she frequently retreats to the garden, pulling weeds and sulking.

He dips his nose down to the crown of her head, pulling the scent of her into his nostrils, the smell of rosemary and bee balm. It is the scent of home. For many months--the last two years--it brought him comfort and centered him when he smelled it, knew she was near.

Now it is the scent of her distance.

The information about the first Inquisitor had taken something away from Dorothea that he hadn’t realized it was possible for her to lose. When she first started sending revelations about the way the Chantry had conspired to hide the truth of the early days, and the legacy of the Inquisition of Old, Cullen and Leliana had shared in the fire of her indignation. It was their cause, their purpose: it felt like a call from the Maker. Then the Divine had issued her proclamation. It was time for an Exalted Council and to discuss the future of the Inquisition. The Chantry--the Sunburst Throne--was ready to take up again the responsibility for Thedas.

It was as if the wind had gone from Dorothea. He had watched her become more and more remote: each passing week he watched her diminish.

With his arm around her shoulders, he picks up her left hand in his own, cradling it. He probes at the Veil, but the Anchor is blissfully quiet for the time being. It is a rare moment of peace in her days, and he is fiercely grateful for the respite. The strain of the Anchor and how it is pulling at her health has begun to wear at Cullen. For the longest time she would allow him to help, but part way through her mission in the Basin she came home and she had changed. He struggles to admit to himself she has turned away from him, seeks to name it as something else, suppresses what it means.

His mind slides to a quiet moment in the garden shortly after Corypheus was gone. It was early in the day with the sun just barely breaching the peaks of the mountains. He had woken and gone in search for her in her rooms and, stepping out on the balcony, he had glanced down to see her, Bull, Vivienne, Leliana, and Dorian on cotton batting pallets, stretching into the forms of the Qunari Mudras. From high above, he could sense the peace and unity that rolled off of her.

Her body arched into the poses of the sun salutation, spine rounding into the Cobra and pulling into the downward facing dog. He had leaned over the balcony, listening to Bull count off the poses and call for the next form, and Cullen found a sense of peace there.

She stood with the others and moved into the pose to greet the sun and her eyes drifted up the tower until she discovered him standing there. Her face relaxed as her mouth fell open into a joyful smile while she pushed into the stretch and lengthened her back. She dipped her eyes closed, breathed deeply holding the extension, and then released it as Bull finished the count. As she moved back to stand in center, she met his eye again and beckoned him down with a tilt of her head and an arch to her eyebrow in question.

He smiled and turned, made his way down the stairs, through the hall, into the courtyard, and toward the others. He picked up a pallet, removed his shoes, and swung seamlessly by her side into the form Bull called out next. He and Dorothea moved together as one, facing the northern wall as the sun peeked over the stone walls and filtered to the garden ground.

He pulls a slow breath through his nose and leans his head back against the carriage wall. His eyes drift closed. It was easy to believe in that moment that it was all worth it, even if it wasn't precisely true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Ray Lamontagne h/t](https://youtu.be/PVuKnEjn2LU)


	5. Broad-Shouldered Beasts

He stares at his arm.

Clenching a fist, he watches the vein in his forearm tighten and raise to the surface, sees the blood pulsing through the vein. He imagines that if he looks closely he will see the spots where he has injected.

Being given your regular vial was a ritual event in the Circles, a time of communion for the ranks, offering prayer to the Bride and seeking strength from the Maker. Everyone partook together, imbibing the tincture. Swallowing the lyrium allowed the body to slowly incorporate the effects, pushed some of the tonic to the muscles, the heart, and the head in pieces so a Templar had a more constant level in his blood.

Emergency dosing was an injection: it was why you were issued a field kit. A potent, fiery blend of refined lyrium shot directly into the bloodstream that floods the mind with the blue fire and then leaves in its wake an eerie, cool clarity of strength. All of Greagoir's Templars knew their emergency ration was only for the most extreme of events, the most dire of circumstances. When he was taught how to emergency dose as a young man, he could not fathom he would actually use it.

It should have been a flag for him that it was Meredith’s preferred way to have her captains dose.

Although if she hadn’t insisted he learn how to do so quickly, he often wonders if he would have survived the Gallows uprising.

A commotion from the outer room draws his attention. His head snaps up and he moves to his feet, off the bed. He ignores his reflection in the ornate, Orlesian mirror over the fireplace as he reaches for his jacket from where it is slung over a chair. He slides it over his arms and moves fast fingers up the buttons to secure the dress wool over his chest. He reaches the door to the rest of the apartment rooms he and Dorothea have been given at the Exalted Council.

The tableau in the next room makes him pause on the threshold. Dorothea sits, the Anchor buried in the Mabari’s fur, the dog standing sentinel over his new mistress in the presence of the newcomer. Leliana has come in and it is her burst of laughter and Dorothea’s words as they tumble with a story about the Chargers and Bull’s birthday that he has heard.

Maker in the Golden City, she takes his breath away every time.

He leans against the door frame and his eyes linger over the curved, subtle perfection of her ear, her hair gracing the edge of the lobe, red from where he’s nipped it earlier. It had taken him by surprise when she pushed him into the room, slamming the door behind her with one hand, the other grabbing around his neck to pull him into her. He breathes deeply, a suck of breath at memory of hands gripping thighs, the scent of jasmine in the air from the window or her perfume, he honestly doesn’t know which.

Catching the sound of his inhale on the edge of the room, she turns then. Her eyes focus to his face and pour into his unerringly. Her gaze lays bare her belief in them, in what they are together. It startles him: the clarity he feels washing off of her, her certainty that she wants this.

He had hoped for it; but he hadn’t dared expect it.

He shifts and moves to join the women. He nods at Leliana, a slight question in his eyes.

“Leliana has found an accomplice for us without raising eyebrows . . . or telling Josie,” Dorothea smiles at the ingenuity of the Nightingale.

He looks at Leliana, a profound sense of gratitude in his mind. “I don’t know what to say, Leliana, but thank you.”

“It was always my promise, Cullen, to protect us, to protect the Inquisitor. Besides, the Revered Mother is a romantic.”

Dorothea snorts, says lowly, “An opportunist and a pragmatist more like.”

“That, too,” Leliana says simply and smiles. “Twenty minutes, Inquisitor, in the far east gardens,” the Nightingale nods and turns to the door, turning back at the last: “Oh, and put a cloak around yourself, Dorothea. It will be noticed if you are walking through the grounds in a blindingly, white dress. It simply isn’t the season for it,” and the lithesome bard smiles generously and turns to let herself out of the apartment doors.

Dorothea laughs at Leliana’s observation and the hound barks once in warning as the other woman opens the hall door to slip beyond.

They are silent after Leliana leaves, awkwardness hanging in the air. With only moments left, Cullen’s mouth feels suddenly dry. He crosses to the sideboard and pours a glass of water from the pitcher. He tosses it back quickly. He puts the glass down on the tray and lifts his head to ask over a shoulder if Dorothea wants a tumbler. So he hears the sound of the dog's apprehensive whine, rather than sees anything amiss. It turns him around with a sharp spin.

The muzzle of the animal dips into Dorothea’s shoulder, pushing into her as comfort and alarm. Cullen's eyes are drawn not to the scrawl of pain and fear on her face, however, but her left hand. Her fingers arch into a sharp claw as she holds it away from her body, the light violent and rippling. He watches horrified as Rift energy begins to emerge in a deceptively tranquil slit above her hand.

He searches about the room, sees his sword in its scabbard leaning against the bedroom door. He takes it quietly from its sheathe, the shrill of the metal a song that vibrates in his mind. He reaches out for Dorothea's hand with his left, his right holding the sword pitched down and slightly away from his body, ready to swing.

He kneels next to her, stilling his mind so as not to call to those in the Fade; he risks swerving his glance to Dorothea's face.

She is sweating, her eyes knitted in concentration. It occurs to him she is struggling to control the Fade energy from her hand. Without hesitation he pushes out with his focus, finds the fabric of the Veil, and blends his will to merge with hers.

With a soft wsssht, the green slit hanging in the air dissipates and her arm falls slack into his hand. It is only the briefest of moments before he sees she is tumbling over, too. Before he can fully catch her, the Mabari pushes into her chest, keeping her upright long enough for him to drop his sword and reach for her. The clatter of it falling to the hardwood is loud.

Dorothea pants, her fingers closing into a fist as she holds it to her chest, trapping it between their bodies as her other hand clutches into his bicep.

He holds her tight against him, his fear near to overwhelming, and they sit together, breath heavy and shocky, until it is time to rise, find cloaks, and depart for the east garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Mumford & Sons h/t](https://youtu.be/tpB-iT6tQeA)


	6. Day Is Done

Cullen crosses the threshold, moving from the hush of the rugs in the outer chamber onto the sharp, brittle sound of the tile under his feet. The under secretary bows him in with a murmured, "Commander," steps back, and closes the door.

For what must be the fortieth time, Cullen wonders if he has done the right thing to come. With the Exalted Council done, the next work of the Inquisition is to disband. But the toll of the Winter Palace, the losses and the betrayals, made The Divine's invitation to journey to Val Royeaux an inviting escape.

Leliana's insistence ultimately convinced him. Cullen had seen the question hovering behind her eyes, the sympathetic training of a Chantry Sister shining through, as she wondered about them. Perhaps Leliana meant it to be a honeymoon.

But it is a damn strange one when his wife spends as much time consulting with healers and mages, having her arm examined, as she spends with him.

The Divine's office is as he remembered. The bright sun radiates through the grand windows. It is a hot season in the capital and the streets have been welcomingly quiet after the bustle of the palace. Most of the court remains there and the city is peaceful as shopkeepers prepare to closeup for the long country season. Movement catches his attention and he sees the Divine shift from behind her desk as he steps into the room. She crosses to the sitting area, inviting Cullen to join her with a casual gesture. He passes stacks of books that are smaller than when this was Justinia's office. Various trophies of Victoria’s—Cassandra’s—time in Seeker service scatter across surfaces. Cullen feels sure they have been placed there by some helpful clerk as the desk, itself, contains none of these trappings.

The woman in front of him stands tall, her head floating effortlessly on her neck without the usual crown and headgear of the Divine. He notes idly that she still wears the braids of her Nevarran homeland, though they are now heavily streaked with thin strands of gray. Her Chantry robes reveal a slighter set of shoulders than Cullen ever realized she had: without her familiar mail and gambeson her figure appears more willowy but somehow less human. She stops in the middle of the settee set and strikes a commanding stance, her feet planted firmly and her spine erect. Without hesitation he drops to one knee on the edge of the rug that frames the sitting area, dipping his head briefly in acquiescence. "Most Holy," he greets her with a murmur, lifting his eyes to hers. She waves him to stand and silence stretches the air into elasticity and softness.

It is the first time they have been alone in years. In the early days of recovery, as Cassandra nursed him through horrible fevers and convulsions, he had wondered if he was falling in love with her. It was not love, though, but the fiercest of loyalty. She always regarded him as an equal and as a remarkable soldier after he became her ally. They developed an understanding in the Cathedral during the early months, working side by side, serving the Chantry they both loved and protecting the woman who was the head of it all. It was a comfortable friendship that served them both well in Haven and got them through the mountain to Skyhold, Samson, and beyond.

It is that kinship which he sees now as her face softens in a relaxed smile of greeting. She sweeps forward and catches him in an unexpected embrace. It is brief, but strong, and she moves back a half step with her hands bracketing his shoulders as she peers into his face. He finds himself standing erect, his spine firm.

He feels a moment of nervousness at her regard, but then he chuckles soundlessly in his chest. She notices and asks archly, raising an eyebrow, "What is it?"

"I do not know which I would have found more terrifying in our previous life: being regarded by the Seeker or the Divine. I certainly never would have survived both in one." He leans down to kiss her cheek in fondness, "How you must unnerve them all, Cassandra." He refers to the Templars that he saw outside, the men in formal plate and Chantry vestments.

She scoffs in a dismissal that he has heard often and knows well the humor that underlies it. "But not you, Cullen?" she motions him to sit as she asks and moves to a side table behind the settee where she begins to pour coffee. He considers and starts to say no when she breaks into his thoughts: "Or, should I say, Ser Knight?" She extends a cup of coffee to him, cream turning the sharp liquid the color of Antivan caramels, and waits with an expression that he can only describe as baiting.

He doesn't blush or negate what she implies. After all, it is her right to call this out, to call him out. This secret does not belong solely to him, but to the Office of the Divine, too.

Truthfully, he expected this conversation.

He sips the steaming liquid, its heat tempered by the milk and its time in the silver carafe, staring into his cup as if his next words are written there. When his eyes find her again she is sitting near him, but her eyes gaze out the windows, her posture that of one at peace. He sighs quietly.

  
"How long have you known?"

  
Her head twitches and a shoulder lifts slightly in a negation of the question's importance, but she offers up, "Shortly after I arrived. It was part of the early days' reports of Cathedral staff: you were listed as being 'in the field'," she smiles as she says it, sips her coffee. "When I first saw your name, I couldn't place precisely what it meant, thought it a clerical error. It was only after the rosters of the Knights-Divine, past and present, were brought to me that I began to grasp what it implied. I can't say I was surprised, all in all. Justinia was always one for mystery wrapped up in ceremony and pomp."

"After the Conclave, after Justinia died, it did not seem important--or even necessary--to make mention of it," he offers into the lull of the quiet as way of explanation for not sharing this secret with her.

"No, it was not important after the Inquisition formed and might have even distracted at the time: it would have..." she pauses, searching for a word, "...confused matters, even."

They sit in an easy silence. Eventually Cassandra comments on the blade at his side. It is newly forged, a gift from Dorothea made by Harritt. Cassandra asks to see the blade, her hand extended more as a command than a request. Cullen laughs quietly to himself to watch her: it is an uncommon sight, a cleric in robes wielding a sword effortlessly through the practice forms of the Chant.

"Do you get much time to practice?" he asks, eyes watching as she executes a lunge.

"Hardly," she bites out. "The Right Hand does not have much patience for me engaging in a training regimen," she sighs and hands him the blade, point down, hoisting it by the guard, hilt aloft. Her eyes linger in longing: "Harritt has balanced it well. Where did it draw first blood?"

"In the mountains, some five months back on a routine patrol," he says casually as he sheathes it. He grunts at the memory: "Oddly enough, Bull was with us. We were securing the northeast routes before winter and we found a party of interlopers. They attacked, we took a hostage to bring him back for Leliana to interrogate. He died during the night, poison that we assumed we must have missed in a pocket or in a crevice." Cullen drifts off a distant look in his eye.

"You think The Iron Bull was responsible?" she asks, her accent thick on the Qunari's name, betraying her emotion.

He nods: "I do. Now. At the time ... " he trails off, his face grimacing at missed signs and the casual danger they had all been in for years.

"Has Leliana released Krem?" she asks. "She would not answer my questions."

Cullen broods, caution in his answer: "He is no longer in Inquisition custody, but I do not believe she released him to the wild, no."

Cassandra sips her coffee, says placidly: "If he is lucky, he is dead. I understand the Emperor had the rest of the party executed for the betrayal."

Behind Cullen's eyes he remembers the sound of the death march on the tambour as the Inquisition Leadership gathered at the gallows on the periphery of the gardens adjacent to the military field encampment. The wood was fresh, not yet cured by the elements, and he eyed this newly erected symbol of the ferocity of the Emperor with wariness. Rumor held that de Chevin had been the first example made at a private audience for the Emperor, despite de Chevin's public pardon for support of Celene. It was only rumor, but it had been months since they had had word out of Lydes and the efficiency with which the Chargers were dispatched certainly spoke to a frequent practice.

Cullen drags his mind away from the memory of the bitter, zealous glare in Dorothea's eyes as she had watched Grim, Rocky, and even Stitches walk to their death. Dalish alone had escaped, nowhere to be found at the encampment and even now Cullen knew Leliana's people sought out their former comrade to bring her in if possible, kill on site if needed. He clears his throat and returns to the conversation at hand: "Yes, a day after the Council closed."

The Divine sighs as she stands, "So much for Orlesian law." She moves to place her empty cup on the tray. She offers Cullen more coffee, which he accepts. While she stares at the cup, adding cream, she speaks without looking up: "How is Dorothea?"

Cullen's initial impulse is to lie. It is what he has done for so long in regards to Dorothea, to mask her difficulties, to cover her bitterness, to hide her pain from others. Sitting here with one of his closest friends, exhaustion overtakes his impulses and the truth whispers out of his spirit:

"She wanes. Especially now. I am not sure how to help her, Cassandra," he whispers.

"Losing a limb is traumatic, Cullen, but she will adjust."

He sits, his head bowed, considering how much to tell Cassandra, to tell The Divine. It is so much more than just the absence of the Anchor. The silence stretches and before he can make a decision to say more, Cassandra speaks again:

"It was some small surprise when you ignored the general recall of the Order to the Cathedral for recommissioning last year. But I suppose it was only to be expected; if you had not told Leliana and me, I can only begin to surmise that Dorothea does not yet know your position."

His brow furrows, "You mean my former position," he speaks clearly, wary.

“It is a lifetime appointment,” her voice is firm, unyielding.

"Cassandra, I only accepted it because of Justinia's insistence.”

“Of course, but I do not see why that would have changed what you agreed to take on,” she says.

“I cannot say for sure why she offered it, but I always believed it was to make it easier for me to find a place here without being part of the rank and file. To stand apart, I suppose, but also remind me of my place, my duty in the larger landscape."

Cassandra grunts, a moue of distaste on her face as she settles into the chair back, "I do not think that is the correct question, Cullen. Why did you accept the position of Knight-Divine in the first place?"

"For duty, for service to the Maker," his stomach revolts at the line of inquiry. "What it has always been for each of us, I should think, why any of us answer the call of service when it is presented."

"And do you now answer duty's call?" She looks at him, her gaze sharp, her words crisp and commanding in the hush of the office.

"Holy Mother, what are our lives but duty and service? Even now as I prepare to journey back to dismantle the purpose and trust that I have carried for so long, how can you need to ask?” his voice is tight and irritation stretches his shoulders. “Everything we have each given: what more would you have of us, Holy Mother?"

The Divine pulls his attention with a clear, abrupt statement: "Cullen, I would like you to take the position of Knight-Vigilant.”

Time slows for him ever so slightly. He feels his skin go taut as adrenaline floods into his senses and his mind expands to take in the room, the sounds, the sights. Years of discipline do not allow him to descend into panic, but the reaction of his body to flee is quick and sure, nonetheless.

He swallows and responds steadily: “I cannot return to the Lyrium.”

He is uncertain why this, of all the objections he could give, is the one he offers.

“I would not want you to,” Cassandra—no, Divine Victoria—responds. “In fact, I would insist you do not. I need the Order to be rebuilt. I need you to craft it into something new: transform it. It is a task you alone are uniquely suited to do.”

Cullen feels his shoulders swell and tighten as his torso tenses and he strives to breathe deeply. “What of Dorothea?” he asks quietly, glancing at the Divine from the top of hooded eyes, his jaw tight and set.

"She can join you. She should be with you.” The Divine sits back, “The Inquisition will be gone; she will need a home that is not on a mountainside in the Frostbacks.”

Cullen’s hands tighten into fists; he bites out quietly, “Cassandra, you swore never to see her in a Circle.”

The Divine gently clasps her hands in front of her, her elbows at rest on the armchair, her back relaxed and tone reasonable: “It won’t be, you’ll be here. She’ll have freedom and, most importantly, she’ll be perceived to be safe, which will keep her safe.” Cassandra pauses. "So, you will do it?”

Cullen hangs his head, closes his eyes in a grimace of pain, and responds: “How does one say no to the Divine?”

Cassandra leans forward, places her hand on his, her tone warm, “And to a friend?”  
Cullen sneers, “I’m not sure how you can ask more of us.”

Cassandra stiffens, withdraws her hand. She rises, turns her back to him, and crosses to the windows near the desk: "The Maker made you for this, Cullen; it is your privilege and it is your duty. You will find a way, as you always have."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Nick Drake h/t](https://youtu.be/Y2jxjv0HkwM)


	7. I Have Been A Fire

Cullen's feet stick to the treads of the stairs as he climbs to the guest apartments in the Cathedral. He must find a way to tell Dorothea.

She will think of this as a betrayal.

She may not be wrong.

He opens the door, nodding to the guards at the door. Once he is inside he finds Enchanter Marguerite in the sitting room, a novel in her lap, the Mabari hound at her feet near the bedroom door. She glances up to meet his gaze, placing her finger to mark where she is, even before he fully gains the room. It is wholly unnerving how Marguerite can feel his presence. It shouldn't be possible, but the woman's uncanny skills in Spirit defy understanding. He is thankful: without her intuitive care, Dorothea would not be as well as she is, but it does not alter that Marguerite unnerves him.

"Enchanter," he greets, "how is the Inquisitor this morning?" Marguerite tilts her head as she regards him, casually forming her answer.

"You should ask her," she states simply, "probably before you share what you have brought back from The Divine." Marguerite rises, a fluid motion of cloth and woman, and she moves to pass by Cullen. She pauses, her hand finding his arm. For the briefest of moments her eyes meet his, curious scrutiny written in her pupils, and then she walks out, closing the door behind her.

Cullen breathes deeply, preparing himself to breach the threshold of the bedroom. It had been early, just dawn, when he left to breakfast and prepare for his meeting with The Divine. It was not uncommon for Dorothea to stay abed until well after morning tea, even before the Exalted Council, if left to her own devices. The presence of Marguerite these last several days has at least moved that up to nine o'clock.

He opens the door with a quick rap of his knuckles to announce his entry. At first all he can see is the neatly made bed, the nightclothes she has casually laid on a chaise lounge, and he wonders how she could have escaped the apartment and Marguerite's keen eyes. Then his gaze draws to movement on the balcony, the open door that was closed when he left, and he notices she is there. She is performing a mudra, the Dhyana. Her shoulders are relaxed, her spine straight, her breath even. She shifts slightly, raising her arms above her shoulders, one extended far above her head and the other ending abruptly around her ear. He notices the Vayu on her extended hand and feels the lick of the Fade energy around her being. As her back flexes down, energy thrums toward the balcony and he senses the disturbance of an incorporeal breeze. He pauses by the door, the growing heat from the gardens washing over his face.

He had never really understood how much of her was the Anchor, her fire and resolve. Now her being is quiet and there is instead a brittle sharpness that makes him think of Meredith at times, Maker help him. The Anchor gave her a resilience, a belief in her purpose.

No. That may be too simple, wrong. It was Corypheus that gave her that resolve, that centering drive. Now it is Solas who must fill that hole and Bull ... so many betrayals, sharp and bitter on the tongue, clouding all reason.

Lost in his own thoughts, he loses track of where Dorothea is and suddenly she places a kiss on his lips. He starts, her presence unexpected, and she chuckles to herself, amused as always at catching him out. She moves beyond him into the cool dim of the bedroom, her hand tugging her shirt over her head after she loosens a button or two at the top. He moves to pull the gauze curtain to distort the view into the room from the gardens. When he turns she is working to shift her leggings off. It is a struggle and he moves to aid her, but halts at her growl. Marguerite has been insistent as they have travelled together from Halamshiral to Val Royeaux that Dorothea learn to do for herself, to find ways to help herself again. He averts his gaze, unable to simply watch her struggle. Not helping has never been a strong suit of his.

Finally he hears a slight huff of triumph and he turns to see her happy grin as she throws her leggings and smalls at his head as she turns off to the bathing room. He pulls it from his shoulder where the cloth bundle has landed; it smells of her sweat and musk, a siren song that speaks to him of old comforts.

It would be so simple to disrobe, follow her into the next room, close the door, and spend the afternoon forgetting their names. It would be simple, but cowardly.

He hears her step into the water, carefully negotiating her treads, and then the plop as she loses her balance and lands solidly, what sounds like, on her backside. He sits down on a ridiculously uncomfortable chair and disciplines himself not to rise. He begins ordering troop rosters in his head, fighting to keep other thoughts at bay.

_Have I ever had a purpose beyond violence and war? Perhaps it is what the Maker made me for._

He berates himself for the indulgent turn. If he has been made for chaos, then it has been what she has thrived on, too, what they have found together. The purpose of their lives these last years has been to assert the stability of Thedas, to keep danger and destruction at bay.

He had not always wanted this never-ending busyness. Long ago, years ago, he had hoped it would all stop. After Halamshiral, after Adamant, after Blackwall, he wanted for it all to fade away: for just the two of them to exist, to be. It was the folly of a winter: a glimmer of a hope scattered by Samson, the next crisis, the rifts that needed to be closed, the next call for aide. She drove herself fiercely to keep finding someone else to save, one more way to help, and he had followed her.

_From the first moment I saw her close a rift, I have followed her. How could I not?_

Then she had stepped back through the Eluvian, broken, battered, and proclaimed it all done. In a sweep of a pen stroke and declaration of words the world changed to one of peace. After a life spent courting death, he doesn’t know if he can follow that peace; if he can follow her. Certainly not now when he has a final chance to atone for the sins of another lifetime.

Caught in the tangle of his thoughts, he misses her voice calling out from the other room. He asks her to pardon him, to repeat herself. Her voice is light, but a tightness pulls at her phrases:

"I said, I know what you are thinking, Ser Rutherford, so you can stop that right now.”

His breath catches in his lungs. Sweat beads finely on his brow. He half rises from the chair on impulse.

“Oh?”

“Yes,” she calls from the tiled bathroom, “you are thinking about coming in here and ravishing my very wanton body,” the sound of her lifting from the bath, water cascading down her body, “But you cannot. Tea will be here soon,” the drain echoes in the tiled room, carrying away her ablutions, “and it would be like something out of The Randy Dowager for the Templar to be having his way with the Enchanter in the Grand Cathedral.”

She giggles; he releases a breath.

“Well,” he returns shakily, “if that's the case, I'll put my trousers back on.”

She rewards him with a laugh, full and deep, and he lets out a breath he did not realize he held. He fills a glass of water from the cabinet, drinks it down, turns to find her coming into the room. Wrapped in a robe, she tackles her hair with a towel; he reaches to her and she accepts his unspoken offer, hands him the towel. She has always allowed him this, so it is not a struggle when he helps now. She sits on the edge of the bed and he half stands behind her, one knee on the coverlet, one foot on the floor.

As he massages the hairs down to the roots, finger combing her short hair into a semblance of order, her voice floats back to him: “I have had a letter from Papa.”

It is a surprise. The Bann Trevelyan has not been overly affectionate with his middle child, even after her rise to influence. But, the word of the Exalted Council spread far and Cullen knows many waited upon the outcome. He rumbles a response, inquiring about the patriarch’s health, and he pauses to wonder briefly how the head of the family will respond to Cullen having eloped with his only daughter.

However, the chance to ponder halts abruptly: “Josephine wrangled it. He has split the estate. He was happy to hear of our continued involvement and said he could not wait for us to join the family and take our place in the Marshes.” She laughs, a self-conscious sound, “I cannot decide whether to be furious at Josephine or grateful for managing this, so I have decided on grateful this week.”

She turns and offers him a radiant smile.

“We have a place, Cullen, a place. When this is all done, we can start a life together in the quiet. It’s beautiful, home. It’s not Ferelden, the green is different than in Redcliffe Arling, not as verdant. But it’s a tawny green, full of pastures and olive trees, oh, and Cullen, the clementines. You remember them from last Saturnalia?” He has slipped down to the bed to perch next to her, the towel in his hands as he stares at her in astonishment, and she has covered his clasped hands with her own. “There are dozens of groves around the Teryn, it’s one of our cash crops. You will love it, I think,” her words have slowed, stopping slightly as her brow pulls together, a look of worry in her eyes, “you will, won’t you? You will love it, Cullen?”

“Dorothea.” It is all he can manage. Just her name. Strangled out of him like a wounded animal.

Her eyes fill with worry as her brow knits together. “There is land and a house for us, it’s the Dowager house, my _grandmere’s_ , that will be ours; we will be on our own much of the time. If we have visitors, we can send them over to the big house. It is looked at as being delightfully eccentric to shun your own.” Her mouth smiles, willing him to be happy with her, but her eyes are watchful. “Tell me what you are thinking, Cullen. You’re worrying me.”

His heart thuds in his ears, the roar of his lifeblood, overwhelms his senses. He cannot avoid her face, and he stills as time slows around him. “I cannot.”

Her head tilts and her eyes and face pinch, “Cannot what? We can do this slowly, and the Marches are nothing like Orlais. The thing about being part of the nobility is that you don’t actually have to be around them if you don’t want to be. You’ll be part of us and I will be there with you: together.”

She is smiling at him and the hope of his whole life should be sitting here in front of him: security, love, family and a clan, a home.

It is a false hope, a foolish hope.

Ostwick does not hold peace and sanctuary. There would be no children, no life-giving purpose, just their demons and themselves.

So there is only this, now: a betrayal. He stills, draws a breath, and speaks, “The Divine has offered me a position. She wants me to be the Knight-Vigilant. I will not go to Ostwick.”

Dorothea slowly shakes her head in confusion, as if trying to unlodge the idea in her brain. “But, it’s over, Cullen. We do not have to do this anymore. This is what we wanted,” she stands on instinct, seeking to gain more authority, her voice becoming strident, “what we have worked toward, what we fought for, to be this together, to be at peace, together.”

“No,” the word is harsh and cuts through her hysteria. “I was never fighting simply for us. I was fighting for order. I wanted stability for Thedas.”

She looks at him aghast and uncomprehending, “But we have done that. What more could they ask?”

“Dorothea, I made a promise years ago to protect and to strengthen, a vow of service to the Order, but also to the Chantry. A promise, Dorothea, that I will not turn my back on.”

Her jaw falls slack and her response is barely above a whisper: “What of your promise to me?”

He pauses a moment to gather his thoughts, realizes the mistake of it when her face hardens in the silence. He rushes in, “You will join me, come with me. The Divine has made provisions for both of us.” He wills her to accept what he is offering, but keeps the pleading out of his tone.

She snorts a derisive laugh in response. “I am sure The Divine has worked out exactly where to put me: safely under her thumb.” It is harsh, and Cullen is reminded that Dorothea never forgave the Seeker’s singular drive to close the Breach, especially when it seemed it would consume Dorothea’s life. “No, it is all too perfect,” she continues, gathering speed in her agitation.

He is at a loss. This was why his boots had been heavy, his words had stilled: he knew she would not see the way of this. He watches her as she ranges about, shouting, pleading, accusing, but dry-eyed through it all.

They both are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Luke Sital-Singh h/t](https://youtu.be/kFiELMXbqHU)


	8. I Found

It is too early for him to feel this distracted. If this is how he spends the rest of the week, he will be a useless mess.

His attention draws to Jonas, who pours a cup of tea. Cullen ponders the appearance of the tea tray as it is still early-morning and the workday just beginning. The scent of mint and elfroot greets Cullen's nostrils and he laughs mirthlessly to himself deep in his throat. His adjutant mistook Cullen's grimaces as pain. He would  share the joke . . . but a headache would be simpler right now then what actually bothers him.

He accepts the cup and stands, flexing his back with a grateful murmur of thanks. It is unfair to use Jonas's perceptiveness this way. But it works to Cullen’s favor as the other man gathers papers off the desk into a portfolio and prepares to leave. He states he will take them to his office to finish them and leave orders for the Knight-Vigilant not to be disturbed. Cullen nods, playing at being too tight to speak, and begins to undo the buckles on his plate. He is placing pieces on the stand in his retreat room as Jonas quietly makes his way out.

He removes vestments and plate until he is down to his gambeson, leather trousers, and boots. He pulls the dagger from his boot and balances it on his fingertips, feeling its solidity. He tosses it in the air, and manages not to fumble catching it. But his grip on it isn't solid and he slices the side of his off-hand thumb. He takes the dagger in his other hand. The cut is no larger than the width of his thumbnail and as blood wells to run down to his palm, there is no pain. The slight tremor in the thumb is barely noticeable, and he pushes his forefinger into the cut, willing it to be painful.

It isn't.

He crosses to the washbasin and plunges his hand in the cool water, streaking it with tendrils of red. He manages to cut a strip of linen with the dagger from the drying cloths and he winds it around the thumb, clotting the wound and pulling it shut. With the makeshift bandage in place, he takes his tea and steps out to his private, half-balcony. When he first settled in these offices, he had been impressed with the construction which put wide, expansive windows in the Knight-Vigilant’s offices, situated so they caught a good breeze even on the stillest of afternoons.

Once he noticed the built-in handholds outside his balcony, he understood the purposefulness of the design. The ground floor below him was filled with various offices for the Knights-Divine. In the event of attack, rallying others would be easy.

It is unremarkable that it made him feel easier from the start knowing how easy it was to slip the confinement of the Cathedral. The design is not accidental, and he often pauses to wonder how many of his predecessors danced precariously close to madness.

His view opens to frantic activity in the gardens. The lush, heavy growth of Summer came on in the last few weeks and the gardeners have had their hands full from dawn to dusk trying to restore order to the beds and promenades. He sips the tea, only absently aware that it has begun to cool. He sees a commotion on the western lime walk and realizes he sees the Montsimmard delegates, extended an early invitation by The Divine to parley on behalf of the Emperor. A nimbus of magic surrounds them, stopping just short of the Templars they have brought with them as guards and accompanying support. He has heard rumors that the senior Enchanters encourage fraternization with the Templars after the successes of programs in Kirkwall and throughout the Marches to encourage friendships and working relationships in the Circles. That the delegation walks with its escort even within the grounds seems to speak to the accuracy.

His mind is befuddled. He almost wishes it was the Lyrium that was robbing his concentration.

Dorothea will be present. Even before Leliana had stopped in his office to ensure that he knew, he had seen the notes on the Ostwick delegation, knew that she would accompany Rylen to the Cathedral.

He is proud of the work Rylen and the Inquisitor have done in Ostwick. The Circle there is becoming an example throughout Thedas of what this new Chantry creation can look like. He would not have entrusted it to any other two people, could not have found anyone he trusted more. The Divine and the Left Hand have been eager to promote that Circle’s reforms. They--Rylen and Dorothea--will be a focal point for the week’s meetings and salons.

It should be so straightforward, their meeting. But Dorothea has always been anything but straightforward for Cullen. One week: a week where he will be in almost daily meetings with the Ostwick delegation. Sitting across from him every day, when she had left, went halfway across Thedas, and started a life in a Circle to spite him.

Rylen’s reports give him a firm grasp on how the inter-party delegations into the community have been going. The Starkhaven knight had never avoided from manual labor and infrastructure construction as a way to build unity, in Kirkwall or the Inquisition. It was why Cullen had sent him to the Approach. The tactic worked well in Ostwick and left the citizens of the teryn more trusting.

He sighs and looks about for something stronger than the tea as he remembers his Progress to the Marches to tour garrisons of the Order. He chuffs a mirthless laugh as he recalls his attempts in the Ostwick Circle to speak to her; he had been treated to her Inquisitor face. That as much as anything is why he stopped writing even the occasional letter. His pride refused to be a burden, and Dorothea made it more than clear that he had become a burden.

It was not common in Orlais or in Ferelden for marriages to be dissolved, but not unusual in the Anderfells and the Marches. The temptation to read more into Dorothea never asking to end their marriage was strong, always strong. But doing so would undoubtedly mean telling someone like Josephine, and neither of them wished to invite that kind of scrutiny.

His only knowledge of her these last few years was, in fact, from Rylen. Rylen included details about the Inquisitor in his reports, not simply the Enchanters. Cullen never requested it, but he supposes he never needed to. Leliana would have seen to that. Maker knows the one visit he had made to the Marches had been an unmitigated disaster. The tyranny of memory swamps his senses and a cold sweat breaks out on his brow. Kirkwall had been damnedly impossible. He still regrets the lack of civility he showed to Varric, the surprise visit from Dorothea and Josephine had been harder still. He couldn't escape the lives he’d damaged in Kirkwall, the boundaries he had walked past with no regard for justice, and Dorothea’s simple presence amplified every doubt he held, still holds, about whether he has ever changed.

He picks up the dagger, and practices throwing it until his shoulder aches and he can nearly convince himself he feels pain in his thumb.

* * *

 

The room is impossibly hot.

And loud.

And his hands are icy like there is a gale.

From across the room he can see her. Despite the years, her lost hand, and a ballroom full of insufferable costumes, she shines out across the night.

His thumb strokes the drinking flute in his hand, dragging through the condensation on the bowl of the glass.

His eye catches Leliana’s, too, hovering just behind Dorothea's shoulder. The Nightingale’s visit earlier in his private office had been unsettling. Cullen knew he was being sized up for complications, distractions, difficulties. Maker only knows what Leliana believes him to feel by the time she left him, but his time in the capital honed his skills in the Game. He found refuge as he so often does these days: in quietly uttered truths.

The Marquis Bourchilon hovers at Dorothea’s elbow, fussing and exclaiming. He is all the more conspicuous for Leliana’s lazy drift on their perimeter, and the ridiculous man appears to revel in the attention he draws. They circulate down the main thrust of the circulating parties of attendees and Cullen thinks he may escape her vision, find a way to float to the perimeter, the narthex, and out of sight, gaining a night of reprieve.

But then the Marquis sees him, waves a ridiculous scrap of lace in Cullen’s direction, and her slender throat tightens as she turns her head to look in his direction.

Her eyes do not seem to find his, and his heart thuds for a moment to a near, painful stop. Before he can turn, can think to find another person in the crowd to engage, they are upon him.

“Ah, Lady Trevelyan, may I present The Knight-Vigilant, Ser Cullen Rutherford? Ah, but silly me, my Lady,” the man flutters a laugh, lifting his fingers to grace his mouth in faux embarrassment, “but of course you already know him, do you not?”

Dorothea eyes the Marquis, one eyebrow quirked archly as she ruminates in the foppish man before her. “Yes, Marquis, as I think you well know he was the Commander of our forces.” She shifts her attention from the little man and delicately extends her hand toward Cullen.

“Oh, yes! How silly of me!” the Marquis titters.

Cullen bows over her hand, “A pleasure, Lady Herald.” He pulls her hand to her eye level and leans into her, pressing a kiss into the bare skin, his nose grazing the ridge of her knuckles. He hesitates the briefest of moments as heat flushes into his face and his eyes look up to see her gaze boring into him. Her face is a mask and he feels uncertain, stilts upright quickly. The Marquis watches avidly and Cullen speaks quickly to fill the moment: “The Left Hand indicated we would see you tonight; you are most welcome to the Grand Cathedral.”

“The pleasure is mine, Ser Knight,” she returns tightly, reclaiming her hand, and she turns slightly away, as if the exchange is tedious and she looks for the next conversation.

They stand there for several moments. It is awkward and eventually the Marquis seems to tire and sighs rather dramatically, “Well, I must circulate. Tea this week, my dear?” he says to Dorothea, bending to whisper a kiss delicately near her jaw line where it meets her ear. Cullen’s hand involuntarily clutches at the sight, the leather creaking.

Dorothea, at least, does not notice or pays it little heed: “Yes, Marquis. I do believe there will be time before I return to Ostwick.”

“Wonderful! We shall see if Madame de Fer can join us; it will be a triumphant reunion for us all! _Au revoir, mon petit pomme de terre_ ,” and with that he bustles off in a fug of musk perfume and affectations, waving at his next conversational gambit.

Cullen expects her to turn, follow the drift of the tide of people, and to ebb away, no words, but no arguments, either. It seems almost more than he might hope for. But she doesn’t move, her gaze drifting back to him from the wake of the Marquis. She eyes him with a side glance. It startles him, he clears his throat to mask his reaction, raises his glass to his mouth—as if to sip, but to disguise his lips—and offers quietly: “My little potato?” It is a ridiculous comment, but the Marquis had been equal to it, and Cullen gets his reward in her laughter. Gooseflesh erupts down the back of his neck at the peal that rings from her, and he lifts his eyebrow with a grin at her delight.

“Yes,” she chuckles lowly, “the Marquis finds it terribly quaint that I am a mage. It matters not that I am titled nor that I was the Inquisitor. He is determined to ‘introduce’ me around.” She accepts a flute of the effervescent wine from a passing servant and sips before she continues. “He has been shadowing me most of today. But I think introducing me to you was the pinnacle of his fun for the evening. If he could find a way to ‘introduce’ me to The Divine, he would.”

He laughs, overcome by the ease of the conversation, and returns conspiratorially, “I see,” and smiles.

She looks up at him, her features easy and relaxed and she leans in as if to whisper a delightful secret and not the gut wrenching words she utters: "I can only imagine the paroxysms of delight he would find if he knew he had introduced me to my husband.”

He stills and his breath stops for half a moment.

“Dorothea."

He says and nothing else: no more words, no pleas, no explanations, just her name. If he could figure out how to, he would entreat her to leave the room, sweep her across the ballroom, mount horses, and leave the capital tonight. For a moment he sees them in his mind, on the road, together, carefree.

He says nothing.

She looks away and laughs bitterly, “Do you know, you are the only one who still calls me that?” She turns to look him square in the eye: "I miss the sound of my name.”

His eyes drop to her lips, at the regretful turn of her mouth and without hesitation he grips the fingers of his glove between his teeth and tugs it off. He pulls it from his mouth, tucking it behind his scabbard belt, and reaches to lift her hand to his lips. He bends slightly and he flicks his gaze up to her eyes as he pulls her fingers to his mouth. He husks her name again and grazes a gentle kiss into her knuckles.

The scent is the same: raw earth, ozone, and jasmine. His nostrils flare as he takes it in and his senses open just as he sees her jaw harden. Her fingers stiffen in his grasp and he can feel the Veil thrum, a taut note of dissonance in the cacophony of the room. She removes her fingers from his hand, wishes him a good evening, and turns from him, dismissing him with a nod.

Absently he sets down his wine glass and replaces his glove on his hand. The tips of his fingers prickle as they slide against the leather, and with his face carefully stoic he moves to a discrete sideboard where a liveried servant in the Sunburst regalia is pouring whiskey. He takes a tumbler and moves to a lonely window. Its heavy drapes have been peeled back and the panes stand open to the night air. He welcomes the clarity of the garden air; after that encounter, he no longer feels cold.

He sips the liquor, the caramel sugars of the alcohol barely hide its bite, and he surveys the room around him over the rim of the tumbler. He stands for many minutes in that way, ignored by the nobles around him, the petitioners, the mages, the clerics.

It is not entirely surprising when the Nightingale edges around several groups, floating through the room, her trajectory moving directly to him. She carries a wine flute and effortlessly slides in next to him and takes up a stance adjacent to his shoulder as if she has been there all along.

He does not turn to her to greet her. Their meeting earlier had been brief and, while not effusive, Leliana had been warm. The last time he had seen her had been the Marches and his contacts with her people only ever bring the news the Nightingale wants one to know, not tales of the woman, herself. He has long suspected the Divine and the former Left Hand have a vigorous correspondence of gossip filtered through code, but Cassandra does not take Cullen into her confidence, so he is left to speculate.

His eyes dart to her face as he sips nonchalantly from his glass; he tries to read her with little success. After his third attempt, she chuckles, and tilts her head slightly, eyes still on the swirling groups in front of them. She says quietly, “That could have gone worse.”

He starts to relax as she sips from her flute, only to tense when she says, “It was inelegantly done, but at least you now know what you needed.”

His mouth gapes slightly and his thoughts rattle and clatter in his head. He moves the tumbler to his lips to hide his discomfort. In the distance, the Divine sees both of them standing there and motions for Leliana to join her. The Nightingale dips a nod of her head in acknowledgement and gathers herself to go. Cullen reaches out with the briefest of touches to her elbow to halt her and asks, “What do I know?”

Leliana turns and looks at him fully: “Why, that she is not done with you yet, Ser Knight. That is, if you have the stomach to follow her.”  She smirks and throws over her shoulder as she walks away, “Good night, Cullen. I will make your apologies to the Divine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Amber Run h/t](https://youtu.be/WJnrgvivZ1E)
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> This ball scene started out as a Dorothea POV. I'm still a little bit enamored with it and it is on its own here: <http://archiveofourown.org/works/13096593>


	9. Say Goodbye

“The Circles were never meant to serve this function. How can we be expected to be at the beck and call of merchants and bureaucrats Thedas-over?”

“Magic is meant to serve, as the Chant tells us, Enchanter. Would you deny the authority of the word of the Maker?” the Cathedral cleric sneers, his voice rising in challenge.

“I am saying that no one will be helped if we spend our time stopping up leaking noses and building barns; magic is meant for greater tasks, larger purposes,” the Enchanter retorts.

“You will do what you are told, Enchanter,” Templar Barnabus breaks in, fury marking his brow.

“Enough!” Cullen barks. Eyes around the table dart between him and Dorothea and he realizes that they have both spoken at the same moment. He meets her eyes across the table and he tilts his head to her in deference.

She takes a smooth breath through her nostrils and says: “We are squabbling like children who need nanny to come and take away our pudding.” Her tone is crisp, somehow avoiding scathing and settling on matter of fact. “We are all here to decide how to create peace in our communities. The Circles,” and here she eyes Templar Barnabus, “ are part of our cities and our towns, as are our Chantries,” and here she nods to the Senior Cleric who acknowledges her with a gesture of his hand. “I would propose,” she turns to Cullen, “Knight-Vigilant, that we take a break. Perhaps after a cup of tea and a walk in the gardens, we will all feel clearer on our purpose.”

“A sound strategy, Lady Herald,” he uses her old title as a bludgeon for the devout around the table. “We will meet back here after the top of the hour; please return to this room immediately after you hear the Cathedral bells toll. Refreshments are through the hall and the gardens are easily accessible out the east terrace doors.” With that he nods his dismissal to the table and as he rises, the clamor in the room quickly reaches a din of sound.

He turns to speak to the lieutenant on his right and senses her eyes across the table. He shifts so he can see the Ostwick delegation; her gaze lingers on his form, taking in his gestures as he gives directions about watching Barnabus and the man’s second from the Kirkwall delegation. His heart thuds in his ears as she continues to sit; but then Rylen leans over to her, asking a question, pointing at the schedule, and her head bobs away.

He rises and shifts to the hallway. The room has become warm and his mouth is dry. He moves to the table to take a glass of iced lemonade. The mage parties that stand in clusters in the neighboring room hush as he walks by them. He meets the gaze of the Senior Enchanter from Denerim and gives a respectful bow. The other man returns it and turns to continue speaking with his group. Softly, voices join his and conversation flows freely again in the room. He sighs quietly to himself and steps to a slightly hidden stairwell. He nods at the Cathedral guard that stands at the base of the stairs and passes into the cooler air. His feet climb the treads and he rises steadily to the next floor to walk to his office.

He makes it halfway down the hallway when he hears his name.

“Cullen?”

His step halts. Cullen closes his eyes, breathes in, turns, and opens his eyes.

“Dorothea.” He should ask why she is there; he should ask how she got past the stairwell guard; he should turn around and walk away before he gets pulled in again.

He does not bother to let his eyes rove over her as he would have done in his younger days; as he did do. The set of her hip, the jut of her shoulder, the lilt of her gasp, they are maps in his mind that will never leave him. He could walk them as easily as he walks the road to Honnleath in the Fade.

So it is already too late. He was pulled in the moment he saw her name on the attendance rosters.

As he stops and doesn’t say more, doesn’t gesture for her, she comes to a halt. It is tempting for him to name the look on her face as uncertainty, but it is more likely her curiosity. He grunts softly to himself: he has had examples enough of her curiosity to fill a lifetime.

She clears her throat and her fingers fly to the lapel of her tunic’s bodice to smooth it. His eyes flick to the movement, skate to her lips, and then back to her gaze. “I wanted to speak with you,” she begins. “At the ball it was--” she drifts “--awkward, and I regretted that we did not have time to speak of …” Here she trails off and her face shifts to the floor, as if searching for the right topic, the right words that will wind him up like a toy soldier and make him go.

He could tell her to make an appointment with Jonas, he could push her off to one of his lieutenants, he could berate her for waiting these last three days to even approach him.

He should sneer, bow, speak pleasantries, and leave. He closes his eyes; except those would be the actions of a child, and if the ridiculous session downstairs demonstrated anything, it is that they are among the few grownups here.

“Yes, it has been a full week,” he avoids that their meeting on the first night could be called anything but cordial. “I believe the rest of today will be spent in further negotiations on our reforms, so I do not know when we will have a chance to speak more informally.”

She nods, a distant look in her eye. “Perhaps,” she begins,” we should speak formally first. These reforms, these changes: you and I care about them.” She crosses the distance that is between them and her tone becomes entreating, “This is everything we worked for in Ostwick these last few years. I do not want it to be lost in a wash of points of order and stilted speeches by unremarkable enchanters. I want this to mean something, Cullen.”

He sways ever so slightly, eyes dipping close, his head full, but he searches his mind for the truth of her words and finds his own feelings mirrored. He nods his head, catches the scent of her skin as she grips at his vambrace. He is grateful he cannot feel the pressure of her fingers through the metal and he focuses on the pinned, empty sleeve at her side to steady himself. “Yes. This should mean something.”

And then he is lost, he doesn’t know whether they are speaking about the Cathedral now or ten years ago. He follows as she nods and begins to speak, her hand waving to emphasize her points, and they turn to walk to his office as she lays out a strategy to proceed toward the vote.

 

* * *

“I believe that Dairsmuid is ready for the vote, Inquisitor. Marcella and I had a good talk over breakfast and she has been speaking with her Enchanters all day in closed quarters; she knows that Ser Adolphus will ultimately side with the Cathedral and the Knight Vigilant. She will not want to be on the other side of this one.”

Rylen’s confidence bolsters Cullen’s mind as Dorothea nods, looking at a copy of the call roster they will use for the vote the next morning.  
It has been a long week, but with he, Dorothea, Rylen, and Jonas working together, they have managed--alongisde Leliana’s influence--to sway more of the Circles. He glances over the preliminary renovation sketches for each of the Circles that they have drafted, demonstrating different living quarters for Mages and Templars, allowing each to marry, even inter-marry between the orders. Of all of the proposals to have Mages provide service inside civic organizations and to dispense magical accoutrements for those with need or coin or both, it had been this suggestion that had caused the most public outrage . . . and created the most openings for them to have private conversations that led to support.

He rubs his chin, lost to thoughts of tomorrow, and so is surprised when a warm hand covers his own. At Dorothea’s suggestion, he has left off his armor these last few days, as have the other Templars in the delegations. The warmth of the slight hand that covers his is immediately palpable: as always, his hands are chilled.

He glances at his arm and raises his eyes to her, taking in her face. Reflected back at him is the same sense of memory he is feeling. “This feels familiar, doesn’t it?” he asks, smiling. “Strategizing into the night,” he waves his free hand in a gesture that takes in the papers on the table, “sitting around a table, deciding which pieces has to be dealt with first.” She smiles, genuine pleasure shining through.

The people around the table have drifted off into other conversations, moving out of the room as they all prepare to walk to dinner. The room grows suddenly quiet and she still does not move.

“If I asked you,” she begins, “not to go through to dinner with everyone else, but to have dinner with me, just us, would you say yes?”

Her eyes are moist and earnest. He could almost believe this was something new, that this was the lead to something real. “For years you were the most solid thing in my life,” he says quietly, “the thing I was most certain about. That unassailable certainty was always one of the best things in my life. I would gladly reclaim that,” his free hand slips up to cup her face, his thumb brushing the swell of her cheek, “even if it was only for dinner.”

She smiles, turns her head to place a kiss on his palm, and they stand to leave. She slips her hand into his larger one, and they walk together, retrieving his sword belt from his apartments. She smiles knowingly at him, sighs at his need to try to protect her even now, and they slip out the side doors of the Cathedral grounds to the street.

He takes her to a small cafe, one he has sat at many times before. The matron in the kitchen recognizes him instantly, greets him with an effusive warmth typical of shopkeepers so close to the Cathedral. Cullen doesn’t tell Dorothea that he comes so often because it makes him think of her, that he comes because it reminds him of what she likes. The matron sits them at a table with a view of the street that is nestled away from the bustle of the dining room. They order from the evening’s set menu--four courses because it’s the capital, after all--and they drink remarkably good wine and have surprisingly easy conversation. It is an evening that feels like a whisper of a memory.

It is late when they find their way back to the Cathedral and the guard has changed. The other delegations have retreated to their quarters across the grounds, and the two stroll at a lazy pace through the gardens.

The night is quiet and cool and he pulls her into his warmth once she shivers as they stroll. It is such a normal thing to do, and they both feel the familiarity of it, so it is not a surprise when their lips touch. Faces are cradled in hands, arms are stroked in the moonlight, and they part, eyes locking together. Without words Cullen turns, his fingers lacing into hers, and pulls her toward the Cathedral proper, toward his apartments.

Once they are inside behind a closed door there is a moment of embarrassed uncertainty, but it passes in laughter and nudges with noses. Hands meet buttons and slip collars from shoulders, ease trousers over hips. When her chest is bare, he spends a moment of focus on her shoulder. He strokes with careful fingers where her arm had been and he presses kisses into the puckered flesh while she spreads her fingers into his hair, gently rubbing at the nape of his neck. He wonders briefly if he ever touched her with such care before she left and knows to his shame that he never did.

They surge together into a gentle tumult of flesh and emotion. It is soft and sultry and enough in its simplicity.

They lay together afterwards and she drapes on top of him, looking up at his hair as he strokes her back from her armless shoulder to her rump. "It's thinner," she muses, carding her fingers through his curls, idly toying with the strands.

He looks at her with a sense of startled grace. She has managed to pluck the obvious out of the air and offer it up to him from where he hasn’t been able to appreciate it: it was always thus.

"Yes." He says wryly. "Not that it doesn't still curl in the damp, but thinner. It happens to us all."

Her hand moves to his shoulder and neck and strokes appreciatively down the column, nails grazing down to his pectoral. He suppresses a shiver of pleasure from the caress, but he cannot stop the dip of his eyes from the pleasure of the touch, the stilted pull of his breath. He hears her smile when she hums: "But you are not thinner. I think you are broader than during the war and Corypheus."

"I probably am," he returns quietly, reopening his eyes. "I am the only one the Right Hand will allow to spar with the Divine, other than herself. The training sessions are about the only way the Left Hand can placate the Divine from taking to the field rather than sitting the Sunburst Throne."

"Shit. She's got to be fifty if she is a day: sword and shield still?" Her incredulity is tempered with humor and he is grateful that the mention of Cassandra has not soured the moment.

"Some," he says; "daggers mostly, though."

"Hmph. You wouldn’t know it from all the robes; I assumed she’d gone to fat,” she lays her head on his shoulder and he can feel her voice through the top of her head when he presses lips to her brow. Dorothea shifts her hand to his abdomen, absently stroking with a finger and the intimacy of her action swells the soft place in his brain he has trained back out. He moves to still her hand with his, eyes pricking.

"Why doesn't Leliana work with her?"

"Because Leliana is supposed to be in seclusion." She nods her head, humming her understanding at the reminder of the work the Inquisition continues even now into this newly forged world of peace.

He should leave it there, but the dim light and the warmth of the covers reminds him of old confidences. "Besides, the first time they tried, Cass wanted to wrestle her to the ground in hand to hand; it pissed Leliana off to no end and she wouldn't talk to her for a month." Dorothea lifts her head and gives him a questioning look: "Cass pinned her, started whispering in Leliana’s ear, Leliana started speaking back in Antivan of all things. Then Leliana disappeared north for a while. They never talk about it, but I think she went to the Crows."

She barks a laugh and he chuckles at having made her smile, grateful as always that she remembers how. She smirks at him fondly, her hand drifting back up to his curls, playing with the fringe: "My warrior," she murmurs. Her voice is fond and lost sounding. She sighs and lays her head down on his chest again.

He shifts her to the bed, nestling her next to him. She snuggles her breasts into his side and he dips his head to the crown of her head and breathes in. Her breathing pulls to sleep and he is startled at how so damn grateful he is that she isn't rushing out.

He isn't foolish enough to think he will wake with her by his side.

Those days are long behind them. They were luxurious moments for desperate times at the end of the world. In this newfound world of peace, neither of them has an easy place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Dave Matthews h/t](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MGEpnKrJU0Y&feature=youtu.be&t=19s)


	10. Benediction

Cullen sits at his desk, sorting the reports in front of him.

Kirkwall’s Circle expansion has been a careful plan, and even now, five years after its successful commissioning, he likes to review the Knight-Captains’ reports to their Commander.

He chuckles when he comes across Varric’s name. How that damned dwarf has continued to hold power is almost beyond him, but Cullen is grateful, however he manages it. With Kirkwall in Tethras’s hands, he and the Divine, both, know it won’t fall to shit and the city into the hands of Red Lyrium without anyone to mark the descent into madness.

The door opens quietly and he peers beyond the lamplight. His eyes have started getting weaker in the candlelight and he has taken to levels of extravagance worthy of Josephin with the number of lamps he keeps. Straining into the dark, he takes off the glasses he has needed in recent years to read. He tosses them to the desktop and pinches the bridge of his nose from the pain that slides sharply behind his eyes.

“Ser?”

Jonas’s voice comes to him from the dark and Cullen turns to his side. He acknowledges his presence at his elbow, looking up into the familiar face of his adjutant. “Ah, Jonas, I’m grateful you are here. I need to write to Warden Commander du Morellus, and I have a damn headache behind my eyes. Will you take the letter?”

“Of course, Ser,” the adjutant answers efficiently, placing the reports he brought to the office aside. He sits at the desk adjacent and takes out parchment. “Are we writing to the Warden Commander in Ferelden, Ser?”

“Yes,” Cullen bites irritably, “that’s what I just said: du Morellus.”

“Ser,” comes the response and the sound of the quill on vellum just out of the lamplight fills the silence.

Cullen shuts his eyes and reviews from memory the report out of Kirkwall. He speaks out his concerns that the Wardens will need to re-engage the Deep Roads’ entrances southeast of the city.

“Please make note for the Warden-Commander, Jonas, that he will need additional resources for dealing with the Red Lyrium, and that the Templars in the Gallows have been commissioned by the Divine to repel its advances into Thedas.”

“Lars, Ser,” comes the answer out of the dark, along with the scritch if the pen across parchment.

“Excuse me?” Cullen says crossly, sliding his eyeglasses down his nose, slipping them from his face to look at the scribe in front of him.

“It’s Lars, Ser. Not Jonas,” the young, broad, brown Antivan says as he steps into the lamplight.

“Ah. Yes. I was expecting Jonas. Right you are, Lars. Please see to it,” Cullen says, waving him off with a hand as he absently reaches for more reports on his desk.

“Yes, Ser. I will take it to the Nightingale now,” Lars responds politely.

Cullen’s head snaps up, agitation in his furrowed brow. He cannot begin to imagine why the Left Hand will care and states as such. The young man, who had started across the office, turns and simply says: “It is as you arranged, Ser, for your correspondence to be reviewed by the Nightingale so that the Hands, in turn, may be briefed as needed.”

“Oh,” and before Cullen can acknowledge the logic of the claim, the young man is gone again.

The light swirls and plays before Cullen’s eyes, and he sets down his glasses again, templing his fingers over the bridge of his nose and stroking the throbbing skin there. He wishes Jonas was here; when the headaches settle in the man always knows to bring tea. Mint and chamomile spiked with elfroot: Cassandra’s recipe from Haven. She had given it directly to Jonas, thinking Cullen would never notice when they got to Skyhold. Cassandra had been in the field more, then, on missions for Dorothea.

Thinking of Cassandra and willing away his headache, he reaches for parchment to write the Divine. It has been too long since he has spoken with her, and he knows she will be wanting an update and, likely, a sparring partner. His duties do keep him busy, but he realizes he cannot remember when he last saw her. He will need to quietly ask Jonas if the Divine is on Progress; he forgot last year when she was out of the Cathedral for a long period. They both travel so frequently, but it is no excuse for him not to make time for Most Holy.

A cup and saucer is set on the desk and the scent of mint and elfroot drifts in the steam. “Your head is bothering you, Commander,” a voice says simply.

“Ah, Jonas,” Cullen breathes with a thankful smile, lifting the cup with both hands to pull the fragrant steam into his face. He inhales, expecting the normal blend, but smells Royal elfroot and something else . . .  
“Embrium? How odd,” he sips and the tea reminds him of somewhere else. He smacks his lips, tasting the residue with his tongue.

“How is the tea, Commander?” Jonas asks him.

He takes another sip. “Very nice; a bit unexpected, though it reminds me of something I cannot put my finger on.” He shakes his head to clear it and takes another sip before setting down the cup to the saucer. His hand is steady when he does so, and he smiles appreciatively.

Standing, Cullen pulls the newer reports to himself and begins to review recruiting numbers among the chapters. He and Jonas spend long streams of sand through the glass before they come to the Marches.

“Markham, Ser, flourishes, as well, “ Jonas pronounces. “The Lady Inquisitor reports she is pleased that it has been reestablished to great success with Knight-Commander Rylan. She writes she was sorry to see him leave Ostwick, but agrees he was the best chance for a new beginning after Markham’s annulment.”

Cullen stands by the fire, pacing absently as he catalogs the details Jonas reads out. “Excellent news, Jonas. I knew Rylan would be the one for the job. Dorothea’s idea to make the Circles smaller, more intimate, to nestle them more tightly into the counties to make them less threatening, and more of the community has been such a boon. Without what she and Rylen did at Ostwick and then Markham . . .” He trails off suddenly, overcome by a feeling he can’t push away.

Jonas notices, looks up from his scribing desk. “Are you all right, Commander? Do you need more tea?”

Cullen blinks in the sudden bright firelight, finds the tea cup in his hand unexpectedly and that he is sitting in a chair facing the hearth. “More tea?” he echoes quietly, his tongue focusing on the feel of embrium on his teeth, the spicy, numbness unique to its taste. His gaze drifts up to look at the hearthback. He focuses on it, straining for the memory to recognize it, focuses as the recognition settles and comes with the thought that is the memory of the tea blend.

“It’s funny,” he drawls into the quiet of the crackle from the fireplace. “I have not thought of Rylen in years.” Cullen looks up and finds Jonas has appeared on his left, the firelight gently playing over his features. “Have I, Jonas? Just as no one has called me ‘Commander’ in years.” Cullen’s voice is sad, but firm; it is not a question.

“No, Commander. They have not,” Jonas returns kindly.

“When did Rylen go the Sanctuary, Jonas?” Cullen asks, probing the edge of his memory.

“52 of the Dragon Age, Ser; he had dosed heavily during the years of the Breach, and it took its toll on him, Ser.”

“I haven’t thought of him because he is dead, isn’t he, Jonas?” Jonas sits and looks gently at Cullen, nodding his head.

Cullen sits quietly for a moment, rests his head against the back of the chair, his eyes half dipping with exhaustion as the tea relaxes him: “You are dead, too, though, Jonas.”

Jonas smiles warmly, cups his fingers over Cullen’s, says: “So proud to serve you, so needed, so valued, the best man he had ever known, his life was not as important as yours, as the Lady Cassandra’s, the Divine’s. Stepping in front of the Crow had been a grace to serve, dying in your arms as you shouted for a mage, holding the wound shut around the dagger, but you couldn’t see the poison that snuck to his heart, a heart bursting with joy to the last.”

Cullen’s eyes fill with the tears that come and when he blinks them away he is unsurprised to see that it has been Cole with him. It has been years since he has seen him. The last time may have been when Dorothea was last at the Grand Cathedral, more than ten years ago. Cullen had seen the broad hat flopping around her charger’s flank. Cullen wonders at how he has changed that the sight of the spirit of compassion does not send him scrambling from the chair.

His eyes drift close and he dozes by the fire. He starts to wander to the Fade, but rouses himself. He would prefer not to have the dreams tonight. The waking jerk of his leg rattles the teacup in his hand and a gentle hand reaches out and takes it from him. He murmurs his thanks.

The hand reaches out and strokes from the peak of his shoulder up to the curve of his neck. It is a cold hand and pulls the fever out of his skin, a comfort and a relief all at once. He fights the drowsiness again and his eyes dip closed. He sucks in a deep breath, filling his lungs with the close air of his study, seeking to clear his senses, the scent of something on the air that makes him think of the garden in Skyhold

His mind drifts and time compresses into vapor. The hand returns to his temple, fingers twining into his fringe, pulling an echo of sensation from his mind. He feels the hand leave his face and then a soft chuckle at a soft rap on his cuirass.

"You are the only man I know who sits around to relax in his armor.”

His eyes open slowly and focus on Dorothea. She is the last person he expected to see, but the sight of her is so familiar that he forgets to question it. Her smile is easy and languorous and pulls him in to the sure sensuality of her being. He finds himself smiling in return, reaching out a hand, lacing his fingers through hers to stroke a thumb over her palm. She smiles more broadly and shivers at the contact: an old pleasure.

“It only ever bothered you,” he rumbles with a smile, “because it meant you couldn’t simply sidle up to get warm.”

She laughs, full and carefree, and it is all the reward he could want. It is the life he always wanted, but did not have.

As she stills, he grows quiet. Her eyes settle on him, taking in his pensiveness, and she simply meets his gaze. Her smile gentles, but doesn’t dissolve.

Finally he speaks: "You are not real."

"No,” she says simply, “But neither are you."

“You are gone, you passed, went to join the Bride in 58. So young,” his voice cracks and his eyes swim briefly.

“Yes,” she agrees.

"Then this must be the Fade, you're in the Fade, a demon, maybe." He doesn’t fear his own words, puzzles through it like it is a chess board, waiting to be solved.

"No, my love. Not a demon, and not the Fade."

"But you aren't Dorothea."

A smile. She tilts her head. "Does it matter so much? Just take my hand, be with me."

"But you aren't real."

"You won't remember that soon."

He pauses. It is hard to think, but that feels right: true. "I won't remember that you aren't real." It isn't really a question.

"You never do." A sad smile. "And this time, we won't be back."

“You're not real,” he insists.

“No. I am no more real than you are.”

 

But. If I am no more real. The sickness?

 

_Yes, my love._

 

Are you a demon?

 

 _No_ .

 

Then you are a hallucination.

 

_A smile.  
_ _Not exactly._

“But you are not Dorothea,” he says aloud.

_No. I am how your brain is trying to make sense of what is happening right now._

Then you are a spirit?

 _Yes_ .

He swallows hard. “I would have liked a confessional,” he near whispers.

_Mm hmmm. And whom would you have chosen?_

He pauses.

“I would have chosen her.”

 “Yes,” she says and smiles beautifully. “So I am here, for as long as you need, and then we will leave, together.”

 He stands, then, leg muscles bunching and launching him from the chair. The weight of the armor on his chest is nearly imperceptible, as forgotten as it would have been in his younger days, blood fiery with blue power. He tugs on her hand to pull her into his side, firm in the rightness of her hand in his. He swings an arm around her waist and she lifts her face to his as he gathers her in, pulling her into his world.

 “I love you, Dorothea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Luke Sital-Singh h/t](https://youtu.be/_YuBkH8ImWY)


End file.
